


Ferris Wheel

by FleetingAbsurdity



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Character Death, Coming Out, Homophobia, M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingAbsurdity/pseuds/FleetingAbsurdity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief memoir of a young man who took things for granted and expected too much from life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ferris Wheel

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the early 80s during the initial outbreak of the HI virus. Reita's POV.
> 
> I originally wrote this oneshot about a year and a half ago. I'm no longer quite satisfied with it, but I hope you can get something out of reading it nonetheless.

We met in our first year of High School. We had both ended up in a crappy, run-down state school, in the same class as thirty idiots – well, thirty one when I was included. You weren't an idiot. You were that one godsend child who kept our teachers from completely giving up on our class and switching careers, the one wise man among a pack of baboons. You were intelligent, artistic, musical and probably the cutest boy I had ever come across. On top of all that, on the second day of school you showed up wearing a Sex Pistols shirt, sat down at the desk that was right next to mine and struck up a conversation with me about music and movies. At the time, I was quick to learn just how similar the two us were. It wasn't until much later that it became apparent to me that, in truth, we were worlds apart.

I honestly didn't get how someone could be so perfect in every way imaginable. The majority of our class had a steady stream of Ds on their report cards. You, on the other hand, were brilliant at nearly every single subject and scored an A+ on our algebra exam – the same exam I failed miserably and because of which I had to be tutored in Math for the next year or so.

The only subject where I outshone you was physical education, though neither of us really took it seriously. Still, it did feel somewhat good to run laps with you struggling to keep up with me and usually falling behind. All the other students merely thought we looked ridiculous when we ran like madmen, our leather jackets rustling and squeaking and the chains attached to them chinking and jingling. We always stayed true to our Punk Rocker style, even in gym class.

Art was your thing. You were great at drawing, and you were able to sketch up just about anything from scary monsters to beautiful portraits. One time I asked you to draw me a picture of some cool punk dude. Even a simple, rough sketch would be more than enough, was what I told you. You painted a stunningly colorful and detailed picture of a gang of punks on a canvas bigger than yourself and demanded that I take it completely free of charge. I couldn't understand why you would go to such lengths just for my sake. Needless to say, that painting became one of my most prized possessions, and I had no problem with peeling a couple of posters off my wall so that I could hang up the masterpiece right on the center of said wall. You also helped me design some tattoos I was planning on getting, and you even drew them out as reference for the tattoo artist. The pinnacle of my artistic abilities were primitive scribbles of knives, fists and booze bottles. Sometimes I would scrawl ridiculous caricatures on the empty pages of your numerous sketch books. You never erased or ripped out those pages. I don't get it, I just don't get it.

Before I knew it, I had begun to invest every second of my free time into hanging out with you. We both begged our parents to buy us electric guitars, and we learned to play them together. It wasn't much of a surprise that you were a quicker learner than me. You often got ahead of me – be it in terms of mastering certain riffs or learning to play faster – which always lead to you having to take on the role of my guitar teacher in order for me to catch up with you. The thing is, we wanted to start a band. Initially, the idea of becoming musicians was probably nothing more than a crazy, heat-of-the-moment kind of thought, but after we had pondered on it a bit, we said to ourselves: hell, why not? A “career” in music seemed like the right choice for us – even for you who could have done anything with your life, gone anywhere, become anyone.

You were also quite the singer, much better than me, so we decided that you were going to be the vocalist of our band. Your voice was deep – oddly deep for a boy such as yourself – but it also held hints of sensitivity and vulnerability as well as something I couldn't really place. Something special. You eventually decided to focus on singing and writing lyrics and left the guitar playing and composing to me. I was secretly pretty damn happy about that division of labour, because it felt like we were a team – you needed me and I needed you. Finding the other members for our band, our first gig, our first album, our first tour – we wanted to experience it all.

Fast forward a few years, and the end of High School was drawing near. The fact that I survived all the way until my senior year without getting held back was practically a miracle. There's no denying that there were some close calls here and there, though: in ninth grade I was almost kept behind because of Math, in tenth grade I almost failed History and English and in eleventh grade I struggled with Math and English. Every time you were the one that saved me from having to repeat the year by tutoring me to the best of your ability so that I could score a D and pass the course. I honestly no longer knew what I would do without you. I would have probably ended up as a bum on the street or something. It was fucking pathetic how dependent on you – my best friend - I had become.

We had managed to lure a couple of other guys into joining our band. Brian and Eric were their names. Brian was the older brother of one of our classmates, and Eric supposedly was an acquaintance of Brian's. Brian had fried his mop of hair into a crisp with some cheap bleach, and you helped him get his hair (and his rocker style in general) into shape. In return for your kindness he promised to become the bassist of our band. Eric's motives for joining our group were left ambiguous, but because he was a reasonably good drummer, I decided to let it slide. He might have said something about you. I probably just heard him wrong.

Our progress as a band was promisingly fast: My guitar playing was getting better and better, Eric was playing the drums flawlessly, Brian's skills at the bass were improving gradually and your singing was almost perfect. We had composed a few songs, and we couldn't wait to get to perform them in front of a live audience. When our graduation was only a couple of days away, Eric told us that he had gotten us a gig at a small club. I nearly died from happiness - our dream was becoming a reality.

And it was all thanks to you.

 

***

 

Life is funny. Sometimes you succeed in everything, other times everything goes to shit. It's like taking a ride on a Ferris wheel. One moment you're at the very bottom, another moment you're at the very top, admiring the scenery around you at its absolute best. Most of the time you're stuck somewhere in between, either on the way to the top or coming back down. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I must have acknowledged that my life couldn't possibly continue to be all sunshines and rainbows and sappy shit for much longer. At some point my carefree life would start to fill up with worries – I just couldn't anticipate what kind of worries.

That day finally came. We graduated from High School, you and me, and on the same night we played our first concert. The club where the gig was held was small and shabby, but a surprisingly large amount of people had gathered there. Although a few other bands were performing that night as well, most of the crowd was specifically interested in us, the newcomers.

Me, you, Brian and Eric – we had all dressed up in our usual clothes. You, however, had also put on a dash of makeup. You had worn makeup many times before, kind of like David Bowie or some other Glam Rockers. You were really good-looking, and the small amount of dark but elegant makeup further enhanced your appearance. It was an utter mystery why you didn't have a girlfriend yet.

On second thought, maybe it wasn't that big of a mystery after all. Even though I had never given your sexuality much thought – I guess it hadn't seemed that important – somewhere deep within my subconscious there had always been a flicker of doubt. The more I thought about it, the more plausible it felt that you were like that. And don't get me wrong – it wasn't like I particularly hated them. I was just surprised. Who wouldn't be at least a little bit surprised and confused when one second they're about to leave the stage after their first ever concert, and the next second they catch their best friend and another member of their band making out backstage. You froze in place and turned white as a sheet when you noticed me, while Eric simply glanced at me indifferently. A whirlwind of emotions raged inside of me, and for a minute I stood perfectly still, expressionless, until I did the one thing that seemed most sensible in that moment: I hit that guy square in his smug face.

“Why did you hit Eric?” you only spoke once we had returned to our apartment. Despite the resistance of our parents we had tapped into our college funds and rented a small apartment in the heart of the city. A tiny place shared by the two us in the middle of a concrete hell – a fitting choice of accommodation for young musician punks like us.

“Because that fucker was molesting you”, I answered.

“It's not considered molesting if I want him to do it.”

“Why would you want another dude to kiss you?” I asked, even though I was almost positive I already knew the reason.

You sighed. “Because I'm-”

“Wait, don't say it. I know. I know what you mean. But are you sure you're... like that?”

“What do you mean 'like that'? Can't you even say it out loud?” you asked, hurt, “All you straight people are the same. Hateful, intolerant. I can't believe I actually thought you were different...”

“Hey”, I hugged you, ignoring your attempts at pushing me away. “I am different, okay? I absolutely do not hate you, or anyone like you for that matter. I'm just gonna need a bit of time... to get used to the idea that you're...”

“Like that?”

“Yeah, like that.”

 

***

 

I have no clue if Eric was like that, too. He never said anything. He did his job as our drummer, but he never spoke much – except to Brian, of course. I don't think Eric was very passionate about making music or performing. He just didn't have anything else to do. When we began getting more gigs, he wasn't especially pleased about the attention of our female fans. The fans that were male didn't appear to catch his interest, either. The only person who was apparently worth his Royal Highness Eric's time, was you. Sometimes Eric smiled in your company, and every once in a while the two of you would disappear somewhere after a concert or a jam session. Every single time it happened I was overwhelmed by a sickening feeling that only went away after you came back.

But don't worry, it wasn't because of you. I still respected you the way I always had. You weren't in any way disgusting or weird in my eyes. I just hated that guy, that goddamn Eric, who acted so fucking high and mighty. I don't understand what you even saw in that guy. He might have been slightly handsome if you looked at him from a long enough distance, but that couldn't have been the only reason, could it? After all, I was rather handsome as well – if do say so myself – so why didn't you try going after me instead of Eric?

Well, maybe because I wasn't like that.

Perhaps I was too selfish. You lived in the same apartment as I did, we had a band together, we worked short shifts at the same record store to ensure our livelihood. We were apart for a few hours a day at best, and when we had some free time on our hands, we did everything we used to do back when we were students: we listened to music, went to the movies, pimped up boring clothes with studs and safety pins, ate fast food and talked about life. We were still best friends, so it was only fair that you occasionally got to hang out with people other than me.

As much as I kept telling myself that, I was bothered by what went on between you and Eric. And as if Eric wasn't enough, even our band's male fans made a habit out of hitting on you and trying to get close to you. I once saw you leave with a couple of dudes who had been in the crowd during a concert. I wonder if they even were like that? Or were you able to seduce normal guys, too?

Normal... like me.

 

***

 

“You should try and keep your jealousy in check - it's so damn obvious and pathetic”, said that disgusting worm, Eric.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I immediately lost my temper. During those rare moments where Eric actually talked to me, he decided to spew nothing but bullshit.

“It means that you need to start acting more grown-up about this situation.”

“Huh? What fucking situation?”

Before I could get a comprehensible explanation out of Eric, you rushed inside, filled with excitement. We were in Brian's garage where we usually practised for gigs. Brian had been focused on changing a broken string on his bass while me and Eric had gotten into an argument. You gave us a suspicious look. You could most likely tell that something had been going on just now, but you didn't stop to ask any questions, skipping over to us cheerfully. You were by far the most unique Punk Rocker I had ever come across. I flashed you a smile. My smile vanished when you clung onto Eric's arm and virtually glued yourself to that scoundrel.

“Me and Eric are dating”, you announced, radiating happiness.

“Oh.”

“Yup, yesterday I finally worked up the courage to ask him to be my boyfriend”, Eric confirmed what you told me. That bragging, slithering, slimy, foul...

“Cool”, my gaze was fixated on my scuffed combat boots.

“'Cool'? So you're not even the slightest bit creeped out by the fact that your best friend is a gay boy who's going out with your bandmate?” Eric sneered.

“Not really.” these shoes could use a good scrubbing – get rid of this excess dirt and mud.

“So you don't find it disgusting that we kiss, go on dates and then later when we get to my place...”

“No. In fact, that's pretty interesting. But hey, what do you say we cut the crap and start playing?” I went over to my guitar and started tuning it. For the next four hours I didn't lift my gaze from my beloved Gibson – not once.

 

***

 

Music was the most important for me – as well as you. You and music were the best things in my life. Eric sure as hell can try making our band less awesome with his presence, he can spend more time with you, but he can't take either of those things away from me – not my band, not my relationship with you.

But life can take both of them away. Life can take everything away.

My time at the top of the Ferris wheel was over.

I had just come home after a morning shift at the record store. I had bought some Chinese takeout for the two us on my way home, since you had spent all morning writing lyrics for our new songs and must have been famished. That's how I was: attentive – unlike your good-for-nothing boyfriend.

“Hey! I brought us some Chinese for lunch. You like Chinese food, right?” I babbled loudly as I took off my leather jacket and dropped it onto the floor of our tiny foyer. I kicked my combat boots off my feet and stepped into the living room where I spotted you curled up on the couch. I laid the food-filled bags on the coffee table and took the time to get a proper look at you. You were crying, silent, eyes staring into space. Worried, I gripped your trembling shoulders.  
“Hey, has something happened?”

You moved your head.

“Did that douchebag do something to you?”

You shook you head.

“What is it, then?”

You took a deep breath, wiped your tear-stained cheeks on the blanket you had wrapped around yourself and your gaze finally met mine. “H-have you heard about it?”

“About what?”

“They... they call it the 'gay cancer'”

“Huh? Gay cancer? And who do you mean by 'them'?”

“People - all the people who know about it so far. Look”, you reached a hand to the floor and picked up a slightly crumbled up newspaper. You handed the paper over to me and I began reading through it, confused. After a few minutes I had read through an article about this 'gay cancer' and my confusion had been replaced by a strong feeling of anxiety.

“Y-you have nothing to worry about... just be more careful from now on, okay?”, I stuttered. It was hard to breathe, as if I were underwater.

“But... I already have it...”

The ground... the ground was giving away underneath my feet. For a moment, I couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely force words out of my mouth. “Don't lie.”

“I have it. I have a bruise-like spot on my back that looks exactly like the one in the photo in that article – like in all the photos and articles. I went to a hospital today, and-”

No.

“DON'T FUCKING LIE TO ME!” I yelled, as loud as I was physically capable of.

Don't do this to me.

I was more confused than I had ever been, and my brain didn't properly register what I was doing. I didn't realize I had gripped you violently enough to leave light bruising on your skin and shook your petite frame so furiously that you stumbled and fell down – not until you hit the floor with a pained groan. That was when I slowly came back to my senses. “Show me.”

You hesitated. You were afraid of what my reaction might be, but eventually, you stood up and took your shirt off. You turned your back to me, and there it was, underneath your right shoulder blade...

“A-are you sure? Are you sure it's true?” I asked, overcome with desperation. I snatched you up into my arms. Your pale skin felt cold against mine, even through my clothes. For the first time in years I had the urge to cry. Why? Why you, of all people? Why now?

You were only eighteen years old...

“They say that dozens have died in New York City alone...”

We were quiet for some time. A tear fell on your shoulder.

“Let go. I might infect you”, you whispered hoarsely.

“Never.”

 

***

 

“Eric left me”, you stated as I sat down on a chair next to your bed. Your face was deathly pale and numerous purple marks had appeared on your skin, the lesions spreading like the plague. You had always been rather thin, and as the sickness had spread through your body, nothing but the skin and bone of your once oh-so sensual physique was left behind. I could no longer bear to look at your body, especially your back. You often asked me to hold your hand. It was like holding five matches between my fingers.

I noticed you hadn't touched the food the nurse had brought you. I pulled my chair up closer to the hospital bed you lay in and grasped a spoon that rested atop the tray. Your breakfast was a plateful of porridge-like goo. I used the spoon to mix up the goo and scoop some of it up. You looked a tad bit reluctant at first, but it didn't take long for you to cave in and allow me to feed you the unappetizing hospital food. Gross as it may be, you knew it was good for you.

“He said he doesn't want to get sick”, you continued after I had placed the spoon back on the tray.

“Well good fucking riddance! Now's my chance to finally tell you that I always hated that guy.”

“I had a hunch that you did”, you laughed weakly.

For some reason we ended up silently staring at each other again. The same thing had happened almost every day since you had been permanently hospitalized – permanently, until...

“Hey...” your eyes glistened, and I wanted to avert my gaze, “... could you kiss me, Aki?”

“I can't. I'm not like that.”

“But you like me.”

“I know. But I'm just not like that.”

“Does it really matter if you are or if you aren't?”

I thought about what you said. They were the same words I had been telling myself all throughout your illness. “I don't know... I don't know if it even matters anymore – if anything matters anymore. You... you're such an amazing person in so many different ways, and you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I love you, but...”

“No buts”, you stated, motioning for me to come closer. You wrapped your bony arms around my neck as I leaned down as close to you as possible. I felt your breath on my skin, “and I love you, too.”

You pressed your lips against mine in the lightest of touches, and I couldn't take it anymore. I kissed you. I kissed you as if I were a junkie and your lips were pure heroin. I kissed you as if you could disappear forever in the next blink of an eye. “Don't die, Taka. Please, don't die.”

Don't leave me.

 

***

 

“Men don't cry”, my dad grumbled quietly.

“This man cries”, I told him, my tone filled with pride, and didn't make a single move to wipe my tear-stained face.

My dad fidgeted in discomfort and whispered to me: “Calm down already, before people start thinking that you're like that.”

“Oh, you mean gay? Last time I checked, this was a funeral. Don't straight people ever cry during funerals?”

“Well yeah, but everyone here knows what that boy was like, and that he died from AIDS. Look, all I'm asking is for you to keep a low profile, son.”

“It's kind of hard to keep a low profile when you've just lost the only person you've ever loved!” I exclaimed, loud enough for the funeral guests in our vicinity to hear me.

My dad was dumbfounded, looking like he had just shat a brick. He was at a loss for words – thank god, I would have most likely beaten him to pulp right then and there if his shit talking had continued. I had zero tolerance for closed-minded people – partially because I was still so fucking angry at myself for my own closed-mindedness. If I had thrown away my prejudice just a few months sooner, if only I had done everything sooner...

No. It's useless to think about what you could have done differently when it's already too late.

I kicked Eric out of our band – or my band, now that you... Me and Brian need to find a new drummer for the band, and later perhaps a singer. I thought I would try my hand at being the guitarist and the singer for a while, and let out some of my pent-up emotions that way. My poetic skills aren't anything to brag about in comparison to yours, but I have a truckload of unexpressed sorrow, hate and confusion within me, and I believe I can turn that into somewhat presentable lyrics and compositions.

There were moments where I got irrationally angry at you. Why? Why did you have to come into my life and make me feel like I was in heaven, only to suddenly just up and leave and make my life pure hell? Why did you give in to that disease? Didn't you know that only losers died? And when I realized I was mad at you I would redirect those bitter feelings back at myself and wallow in self-pity.

I would beat myself up until a happy memory of you and me and our High School years would come to mind, and as soon as my thoughts were filled with those memories, I would pick up my guitar and start composing music that fit the images in my head – creating background music for the short film-esque snippets from when I was a teen. I created songs in hopes that my memories of you would be forever preserved in them. Whenever I would play them, I could travel back in time and pretend to still be that naïve kid whose personal Jesus was Sid Vicious, who got awful grades in school, used his allowance to buy cigarettes and records, and who cursed the fact that his best friend would have been his soulmate if that friend hadn't had a dick.

It's laughably pathetic how an idiot such as myself has started to think about profound shit; that I've become a travesty of a philosopher. It's your fault.

After your funeral ended I snuck away from my family and headed towards the nearest store. I bought a beer. One beer. I do remember how much you hated it when I got piss drunk.

I wandered through the streets, sipping on my beer every now and then. The sky was cloudy and I thought I felt a raindrop on my forehead. Whatever, I never liked sunny weather, anyway. People were too giddy and annoying on sunny days.

I happened to pass by a small church. A crowd of old geezers and hags were standing outside the building, yelling and preaching about 'god's punishment' and the HI virus. I was instantly overrun by the urge to throw something at them. There went my bottle of beer.

Before long I returned to our apartment – my apartment. I ate a TV dinner, after which I retreated into my bedroom and shed myself of the stiff suit I'd been wearing all morning. I lay down on my unmade bed and closed my eyes, a final few thoughts buzzing around in my head before I went more or less comatose from mental exhaustion.

Why does the Ferris wheel keep moving?

Will I ever reach the top again?


End file.
